The Sky Regency: A SciFi Historical Alien Romance Page 5

  “You have no choice,” comes a smooth voice. Startled the women spin around. An egg slips out of the kitchen table and cracks on the floor. Yolk splatters everywhere.

  Aidar regards it with a tilt of his head, as if he’s not sure why that would have happened. “Strange things,” he mutters. “You lot do such strange things. Tell me, do you really think that you can make me leave? Do you think that you can succeed where others have not?”

  Rather than answer, Margaret demands, “what are you looking for?”

  “A place to rest,” says Aidar, simply. “And a place to learn.”

  8

  This is what Margaret knows about the invaders. All across England, the term Sky Men has been coined. They have a human appearance but when faced with a very emotional situation, some purple scales appear on their skin. It appears that they have reptilian origins of some sort, and may even have the ability to shape-shift.

  This information comes from outside. Margaret takes to accompany Madeline into town, despite the older woman’s reluctance. She has no intention of being in the house with the Sky Men on her own.

  Rather than the main streets, which are dark and dangerous, they venture to a small house just on the edge of town. It’s been turned into a station of sorts, where essentials unable to be grown or farmed can be purchased.

  The price of everything has soared. Madeline pays nearly triple for a pound of flour. She grouses, “it’s good to see that we have banned together during such trying times.”

  The man behind the counter simply shrugs. “I need to make a living, Madeline. It’s nothing personal against you and yours.”

  "It’s never been personal,” says Madeline. “And it wouldn’t be personal if our positions were reversed. But it’s still rotten, and you know it.”

  The man, Gerald, gives an uninterested sort of shrug. “Did you want anything else?”

  “I can’t afford anything else,” snaps Madeline.

  Gerald’s gaze drifts to Margaret. “You could certainly make me a trade.”

  “You could be less of a boar,” counters Margaret. “You would get more business if you actually resembled a human!”

  Margaret slips an arm around Madeline’s shoulders. She says, “it’s alright. I’ve heard far worse dealing with the baker’s son. Let’s just get back home, before we run into unfortunate circumstances.”

  The maid huffs, glowers at Gerald, but lets herself be led outside. As they walk, Margaret can’t help but wonder, and then she can’t help but ask. “Madeline,” she says, tilting her head to the side just a little. “Are you curious?”

  “About what?”

  “About the Sky Men. Are you curious why they’re here?”

  “To take what doesn’t belong to them,” says Madeline, simply. “And to cause us pain. They aren’t here for a rational reason, that much I can tell you. Rational men don’t start wars.”

  Margaret says, “but they aren’t men.”

  Madeline gives her a strange look. “Pardon?”

  “They aren’t men,” repeats Margaret. “Not men like we know, at least. They come from out of this world, Madeline. I wonder sometimes if that changes things. Do you think that there’s a reason they’re here? We can do awful damage to our surrounding, what with fires and war. Do you think their own home is in danger?”

  “I don’t know,” admits Madeline. “And frankly, my dear, I don’t care enough to find out. You shouldn’t care either.”

  Margaret knows that. The problem is, she does care, very much so. She wants to know what’s going on with the Sky Men. She wants to know why they’re here.

  And so, as she walks back to the manor house, Margaret steels herself.

  She will find Aidar.

  Tonight, she will talk to him.

  Elsewhere in the world, the Duke has been very busy. He hasn’t been home in nearly a week and remains completely unaware of the fact that his house has been turned into a way-station, that his bride-to-be is in such obvious danger.

  Instead, he has been hard at work, making plans with the Prince Regent to lead a resistance against the Sky Men.

  “They only seek to conquer,” says Julian, firmly. “They have little consideration for us humans, if any. They are beastly, they are disastrous. More than that, they’re deadly.”

  The consort that he speaks with most frequently, Damian, nods. “So they are. And yet, we were once considered to be the same by our foes. They must have a weakness.”

  “Not one that I’ve ever come across,” says Julian.

  Damian frowns. “We must be able to find something. Perhaps—they are taking over our homes now, correct?”

  “Trapping everyone inside, using our own places of residency for their own needs.”

  “We can use that.”

  “Pardon?”

  Damian waves one hand through the air. “We can use that to our advantage. They must communicate at some point, correct? Perhaps we can use their network of communication to farther our own. Their weapons are vastly more advanced, but if we know ahead of time—”

  “—then we might be able to get in a few surprise attacks and level the playing field,” finishes Julian. “All we need to do is figure out what houses hold the pawns.”

  “Easy enough,” says Damian. “We’ll begin to ask about it at the stores and the help stations. And you—you have a rather busy maid at your home, don’t you?”

  Julian has shared many stories of Madeline in the past, for he’s always been very proud of the old woman. Now, he regrets telling them. “Aye. But she is old now, and does not get through town as often as she used too. I would fear for her, considering how dangerous the streets have become.”

  “Fear for her then,” says Damian. “In this trying time, we must all make sacrifices.”

  9

  Her entire life, Margaret has followed the strict rules of English aristocracy. The only time she has ever strayed was her first night with Julian, which seems like it must have happened a very long time ago.

  But now, Margaret finds herself about to break another rule – not just of aristocracy, but of common sense. It’s late in the day. Outside, the sky is burning with the red and oranges of sunset.

  She steps into the sitting room that Aidar has claimed to call his own. Margaret lingers just inside of the doorway, clearing her throat.

  Aidar doesn’t look up. “Do you require something?”

  “Yes,” says Margaret, firmly. “I have questions for you.”

  Still, Aidar doesn’t look up. He’s reading a book, one of many piled up on the shelves. “I am very busy. I have no time to play games with you.”

  Margaret says, “then you won’t be allowed to stay in this home any longer.”

  That gets Aidar’s attention. He glances at Margaret from the corner of his eye, and the gaze alone is enough to make her heart freeze. “Repeat that.”

  “Answer my questions,” says Margaret, her tongue suddenly feeling heavy, her brain thick with cotton. “Or you will not be allowed to stay here any longer. That’s only fair.”

  “You think I care about fairness?”

  “You care about that book,” says Margaret. “I haven’t been able to figure out what else you care about. That’s one of my questions.”

  Aidar folds down the page he’s reading and closes the book. The legs of the chair scrape against the floor when he pushes it away from the desk, turning now to fully face the young woman. "You think that you can make a bargain with me?"

  Margaret purses her lips together and says nothing.

  “That’s very interesting,” says Aidar. “Alright, woman. I will play this game with you, so long as it still manages to amuse me. You may ask me a question, and then I will ask you one.”

  “You will answer truthfully?”

  “I have no reason to lie to you.”

  “None at all,” says Margaret, suddenly floundering. She hadn’t expected this to be so easy!

  “No,” says Aidar. “You have n
o way of using any knowledge against me. Your weapons are far too weak—too plebian. They are from a time long before my kind. Archaic, even.”

  “So you’re from the future?”

  “I am from a planet that is vastly more advanced than yours. We put our time and energy into developing our society, not starting war amongst our own people.”

  “But you’ve started war now.”

  “Yes.” Aidar tilts his head to the side, as if not sure why that comment had been spoken. After a moment, he elaborates, “but not with our own people. We respect our own kind, and we understand our own craving for dignity and approval. It is simply the rest of the universe that lays barren and open before us.”

  Hesitantly, Margaret pulls one of the chairs away from the wall. She glances over her shoulder, certain that Madeline will be rushing in to bustle her out any moment now.

  No one comes.

  Margaret tries not to let herself be too disappointed. She worked hard at slipping into this room unnoticed, after all, and she certainly does want to learn about the Sky Men.

  It’s just that, with Aidar’s imposing form sitting before her, sharp eyed and smooth tongued, the young woman finds herself more than a little bit frightened.

  “Oh.” She smooths out the skirt of her dress and sits down.

  Aidar’s eyes flick back and forth, following the path of Margaret’s hands. “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Wear that—” Aidar waves one hand at Margaret. The next word comes out stilted, like it’s foreign. “Dress.”

  Margaret blinks. That’s certainly not the sort of question that she had been expecting. “My dress?”

  “It’s impractical. You can hardly do anything wearing it,” elaborates Aidar. “Even I can tell that running would become a problem. Fighting is out of the question. Why not trousers?”

  Who is Margaret to explain English fashion? This is a question that would be far more suited to Emma, who is always keeping up with the latest trends.

  She fumbles for a moment, trying to come up with an accurate answer. Eventually, she just settles for, “it looks nice.”

  “It looks like a death waiting to happen,” counters Aidar. There’s no hostility in his voice. It’s just the truth, plain and simple. “Your land is burning, and still you are more concerned with beauty than safety? Is this the mind set of all your people, or are you just exceptionally inane?”

  “I’m not inane,” huffs Margaret. “For the most part, we aren’t fighting. The women, I mean. It’s—”

  “Another ridiculous trait of the humans. All are capable of picking up a weapon, no matter how unlikely the survival rate may seem. On my planet, we are all given a course on tactical maneuvers. It’s the key to survival, should something happen.”

  Margaret lunges at the chance to ask a question of her own. “What’s your planet like?”

  “Advanced,” says Aidar, simply. He tilts his head again, just slightly. “At least in comparison to yours. I am surprised that the human race has not furthered themselves more, considering the beings that once walked these shores.”

  It’s tempting to ask about the beings in question, but Margaret bites her tongue. She wants to learn about the Sky Men and where they come from, after all, not some impossible history of her own planet, long since lost to the tides.

  She demands, “that’s hardly an explanation! I asked what your planet was like. Calling it advanced is hardly an explanation, nor is it a proper answer. Have you discarded our agreement so soon?”

  And then the impossible happens. Aidar tilts his head back, parts his lips, and laughs. It’s not a deep sound, and it isn’t particularly charming. It’s a rush of air, broken up by something that almost sounds like a low chirp.

  Margaret gapes at him.

  “I am not the sort to forgo an agreement. It’s not acceptable among my kind. The very idea of it—laughable. It’s laughable.”

  “The way you’re dancing around my question is what’s laughable, sir.”

  “Sir?”

  “My question,” prompts Margaret. She folds her hands over her lap. A moment later, leery of having her mannerisms called out once more, she unfolds them and curls them in the soft fabric instead. It’s one of the many dresses that the Duke has given her over their stay together.

  “Of course,” says Aidar, soothingly. He smiles at Margaret, showing off rather sharp looking teeth. They are clearly inhuman. “My planet is far from here. I call it Andromeda. You refer to it as a star, I believe, nameless and pointless. And yet, it is my world that has continued to develop where yours has stalled. It’s my world that has flourished where yours is already fading.”

  Aidar continues, “we have but one name for the society on Andromeda. Ich-la’tar. Home. There are very few societal breaks, and only two steps of hierarchy. I am the Prince. When I take my bride, I will become King. There is a princess. When she takes a husband, she will become Queen.”

  Margaret asks, “what of the current rulers?”

  “Dead,” says Aidar. “Of illness.”

  “Is that why you’re here? Because there’s a sickness on your planet?”

  “I’m here because this land once belonged to us. Now, as our population grows, we must expand our territory. We must take back what is rightfully ours.”

  “Yours,” echoes Margaret.

  Aidar’s grin widens. It looks almost feral. He stands up, offers Margaret his hand, and says, “mine.”

  She doesn’t take it. Instead, Margaret stumbles to her feet, trying to keep track of some dignity. It’s a failing effort. Her skin is ashen, lips drawn into a thin line. “Pardon, but I should go. I promised to help Madeline in the kitchen.”

  “We shall continue our game later,” says Aidar. It sounds less like a suggestion and more like an order.

  Margaret tries not to hate herself for nodding – and then scurrying away.

  10

  Over the next several days, Margaret and Aidar continue their discussions. It seems unusual for the cold-blooded species, who tend to hold themselves at a distance, in a place above the humans. Aidar’s companions, for example, have very little to say to the inhabitants of the manor house.

  It quickly becomes apparent that he wants to study the humans. “I need to learn about them,” says Aidar. “My race needs to be well informed of every other species in the universe.”

  “You seem to have already mastered our language—How?”

  “We’ve been communicating with one of your kind for quite some time.”

  The phrase, spoken so nonchalantly by the Prince, resonates deeply in Margaret’s mind. A human knew about the Sky Men long before the invasion. Disconcerted, she pauses, then mumbles, “one—one of our kind? Who? Who have you been talking to? And for how long?”

  “I can’t tell you this information. But even though we managed to learn your dialects, our people still need to figure out how your whole society works. We must have a deeper understanding of life.”

  “It would be easier to get that understanding,” says Margaret in a snippy tone. “If you weren’t destroying everything on this planet.”

  Aidar gives one of those laughs, a chirping, breathy sound. He picks up the feathered pen that he’d been toying with. The black plume has seen better days. It’s missing pieces of foliage in spots.

  “I’m not destroying everything,” he says, voice airy and dismissive. “I’m simply destroying England. This land is rightfully mine.”

  “I don’t know the history behind it, and I don’t really care to learn. It might have been yours in the past, but it’s another sort now.”

  “It won’t be for long.”

  “Oh, you’re insufferable! You claim that you want to learn about us, but then you refuse to see any sort of reason! No wonder you lost your home in the first place!” In a fit of childish rage, Margaret curls her hands into fists, stomps one shoed foot down on the ground.

  It’s not unusual for their discussions to
grow heated. In fact, many of their lessons, for that’s the only word able to be given, end up in small spats.

  This one, though—this one is different.

  It’s the first time that they’ve ever spoken about the war, at least in such blunt terms. Aidar looks far from amused, and Margaret is so angry, so distraught, that her skin is burning.

  “I can’t do it,” says Margaret. “I can’t stand here any longer and listen to you talk about my people as if we’re ants beneath your feet! This place might have belonged to you once, but it’s ours now! It’s my home, and these are my people!”

  “Your home was doomed to fail long before we arrived,” says Aidar, standing up in one swift motion. He’s much taller than Margaret is. His emerald eyes flash. For a moment, it looks as if they’re glowing. “And your people are corrupt. Wiping them out will be a blessing to this planet.”

  “I hope you all burn,” hisses Margaret. And then, without thinking, spurred on by rage and desperation, she slaps Aidar right in the face. The sound of skin against skin is nearly loud as an explosion. It resonates through the room, drowning out even the soft whiff of Margaret’s breaths, even the crashing beat of her own heart.

  There’s a moment – fleeting, fast, quick – where nothing happens. The two just stand there, staring at each other.

  The moment ends quickly.

  Aidar’s eyes truly do glow this time. Purple scales burst into existence; small ones that frame his eyes, larger ones that burst out around his lips, dance along the side of his face. They bloom into being around his neck, a protective layer on the front of his throat, a shield that can’t be knocked out of his hands.

  “How dare you,” says Aidar, but the words are accompanied by a clacking of teeth, by a hiss that no human should be able to create. His pupils are mere slits in an endless pit of glowing green. “You think laying a hand on me is the smart option? I could flay you where you stand, human.”

  The lack of a name is piercing. Margaret stumbles backwards, voice stripped down to nothing. Fear grips her heart. She is drowning in it, lost in the sheer terror that is created by facing down this wretched, haunting beast.